Marathon Man
by O f f beat
Summary: How Ichigo copes with death, both his and hers. "He runs until he is drenched with sweat, runs until he can no longer hear Orihime's crying echoing in his ears." IchiRuki one-shot.


**A/n:** Writing this story was hard, kind of like stabbing myself continuously in the heart with a proverbial pencil. Poor Ichigo. Probably sucked worse for him.

* * *

**Marathon Man**

**

* * *

**

Ichigo is seventeen when he learns the hard way that Fate takes away without warning, without regard, without really any absolute reason at all. When he first hears, in fact, what has happened and how she is—"It...doesn't look too good, Ichigo."—he stands for a second in disbelief before sense finally settles in and he feels the near-uncontrollable desire to kick someone's ass.

When he finally finds her, ceramic doll-like on the cold, hard ground, all of that assurance evaporates in an instant.

"Ichigo," she says softly, and he hates it, hates the way she smiles and the way her eyes glass over.

"Stop it." He clenches his fists and shakes, furious. "Don't you _dare_."

_Don't you dare do this to me._

She shifts, painfully and slowly, and the pool of red beneath her grows at an alarming rate. Orihime besides her gasps, and Ichigo's chest hurts as if _he_ is the one with the hole through his stomach and not Rukia.

"Idiot," he barks. "You're making it worse!"

She inhales weakly, makes a small noise that Ichigo realizes is supposed to be a laugh and then utters back, "Idiot." She grasps Orihime's hand, who cries harder when their fingers intertwine. "It can't get any worse than this."

"What are you talking about?" he scoffs, or tries to scoff, but it sounds as if he is choking on the unknown lump in his throat, the lump that is increasingly getting larger and harder to bear. "It _could_ be worse. You could be...could be..."

"Dying?" she gently supplies.

Orihime sobs.

Ichigo snaps, "Don't _say_ that!" His voice cracks. "You're _not_."

She closes her eyes, and when she speaks, her voice is calm and compliant and he is acutely reminded of her execution and her acceptance then. "I am."

_And there is nothing you can do about it,_ the silence that follows seems to say. It burns him like fire consuming skin.

"You're not," he grits out stubbornly because he _has_ to believe that she will survive through this. One of them _has _to foolishly hold on to that thread of hope, has to tie it to their heart and give it life regardless of the futility of it all. "So," he continues, somewhat breathlessly, like he is out of air, "shut up and start healing."

_Please._

There is a long moment of silence, of complete stillness, with no reaction from Rukia. Ichigo feels the fear explode in his stomach and crawl up his esophagus and is about to shake her into consciousness when her mouth slowly moves.

"Orihime," she murmurs suddenly. Her voice is low, like she is about to fall asleep. "Do me a favor."

Orihime, face tracked with tears, blinks but then nods as she lift Rukia's hand to her heart.

"Take good care of Ichigo for me."

His reaction is almost instant; comprehension slaps him in the face, and he feels an ache so thunderously painful, it is as if someone has punched him square in the ribs. "What—"

"Make sure," she cuts him off without a hitch, turning her weary gaze in the direction of Orihime, "that he doesn't get into any unnecessary fights."

Orihime's shoulders shake as she nods.

Ichigo clenches the sides of his pants. "Rukia—"

"Make sure," she continues as if he doesn't exist, as if he is no longer standing there pleading to be heard, "that he scowls less and smiles more and eats all his vegetables."

"Stop—"

Her voice drowns him out again, muting him despite its soft volume. "Make sure—" This time, there is heavy emphasis on the words, a sort of desperate plea hanging precariously from her tongue. "—that he knows that _this isn't his fault_."

His knees wobble.

"Make sure," she says once more, softer this time, gently brushing aside the locks of hair that stick to Orihime's face, the tears that travel along Orihime's cheeks, "that he forgives himself."

He turns around.

"Will you do that for me, Orihime?" Rukia whispers softer yet. She is fading.

He has trouble breathing.

Orihime's answer is a quite, hiccuping sob, and wish granted, Ichigo can feel Rukia's gaze shift and stare holes into his back. He stands tense and awaiting.

Nothing comes for a long time, and his ears strain in the silence that stretches long and far and forever between them. Ichigo and Rukia are only a few feet apart, placed on the same horizontal slab of concrete, but something unmentionable has separated them so far that he can no longer see her, no longer reach for her no matter how long and far he stretches, no matter how great and profound his desperation is.

Then, finally, she lets out a little sigh. "Ichigo."

And, suddenly frightened beyond recognition, he bolts.

He sprints off in the opposite direction, runs off like a racer who has just heard the loud, deafening crack of a gun signaling the start for the race of his life. He runs until his lungs burn, runs until his calves hurt, runs because he hates how his name sounds not like his name but more like a last, final, permanent _goodbye_.

_I refuse to accept it._

He runs until he is drenched with sweat. He runs until he can no longer hear Orihime's crying echoing in his ears.

_Never._

Ichigo runs. And he thinks he will keep running for the rest of his life.

* * *

Ichigo is sixty-eight when he finally stops running and only because his knees finally give out. "Because of all that running at your age," his orthopedist says. "You're not seventeen anymore, you know."

_I know, you idiot_, he would like say, but only silently lets mortality to finally catch up with him.

At seventy-one, Ichigo tries running again and fails. His legs crumble before he can even get down the street and around the corner and far away from the enraged Tatsuki that runs soon after him. It takes Tatsuki and both of their sons to pin him to the ground in an effort to stop him from trying again.

Later that day, he admits defeat and checks himself into a hospital. When the receptionist asks him why, he answers with a scowl, "Because I'm going to die soon."

To prove his point, he immediately contracts a severe case of pneumonia. His doctor, flipping through his medical file, is flabbergasted as to how a perfectly healthy man is suddenly so sick.

"Fate," Ichigo bitterly says.

"Cigarettes," Tatsuki corrects. "Nearly a pack a day when he was younger. That kind of damage doesn't undo itself over time."

The doctor's eyebrows arch upward. "What made you stop?"

"Running," Ichigo replies after a long bit of silence. He looks outside his window and feels a tingling phantom ache run up his legs, feels the desire to get up and simply _go_. "I took up running."

Tatsuki next to him smiles understandingly. She _always _understands—that's why he married her. She understands why and for _who_ Ichigo is always running, understands that their relationship, their marriage, is built upon a foundation of mutual sympathy and camaraderie and nothing more.

He doesn't think he's capable of romance, and she understands and accepts because she is the same.

"Fate," the doctor confirms, scribbles something on the clipboard at the foot of Ichigo's bed, and leaves.

Later that week, Fate comes and bites him in the ass.

He is waiting impatiently in bed, as fidgety and agitated as one is when a person so prone to movement—so _dependent_ on it—is rendered immobile. He is praying for a reprieve from the suffocating blanket of boredom when someone knocks in the door and a voice inquires, "Kurosaki-san?"

Ichigo grunts in conformation, too pissed off to do anything else.

Then, he catches sight of the nurse that enters.

Then, he thinks his heart stops.

Then, he bowls over to the side in a massive coughing fit that wracks his entire body and that acutely feels like someone is ripping the delicate tissue of his lungs apart, bit by bit, mercilessly.

The nurse—with a nametag which, incidentally enough, shows no name—is quick to come to his side and pat his back in soothing, circular motions.

This close, Ichigo can see the violet of her eyes and the purple shade in her hair and the pores of her skin and feels his stomach flop as if he's about to throw up. Instead, he curls onto his side and utters eloquently, "Fuck."

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..._

The nurse pauses in her ministration but her hand still touches his spine, and he can _feel_ her pulse roaring like a relentless wave of molten lava.

_Alive. Beating. And most importantly, alive._

He buries his face into his pillow of what he knows is his deathbed, and the irony stings far more than any blade.

"Are you okay, Kurosaki-san?"

"No," he growls.

She takes her hand away to flip through his medical clipboard. "Is there anything I can do for you?

He thinks for only a moment. "You can leave." And then, with heavy emphasis on the words, a sort of desperate plea hanging precariously from his tongue: "You can erase the image of your face from my mind."

The nurse punches him gently on the shoulder, precisely where he would've been hit when he was seventeen. The nostalgia all but drowns him.

"That's not very nice." He can hear the grin in her voice. "I'm not _that _hideous, am I?"

"No," he says as a way of apology and, because old age has eroded the usual walls of his inhibitions, adds unconsciously under his breath, "You never were."

Ichigo tenses for a second.

_Shit._

He imagines the puzzled look on her face, the quirking of her left eyebrow and the slight drop of the corner of her mouth. He imagines and feels bile ravage its way up his throat.

"I don't understand," she confesses after a moment of awkwardness.

"I wouldn't expect you to." Finally, sadly, he closes his eyes and tries to accept the unavoidable. "You look like her—hell, even act like her—"

_But..._

Suddenly, she comprehends the complexity of her existence, the enigma of his past and of ultimately what she represents. Slowly, perhaps even hesitantly, he feels his hospital issued mattress creak as she sits herself down next to him. Even though his back is to her, and even though his eyes are tightly shut, he can see her on his lids as if she is a permanent afterimage.

"Do you believe in reincarnation, Kurosaki-san?"

He eyes snap open, and he feels his eyes blur; moisture makes it almost impossible to distinguish his surroundings.

"Not until today," he whispers.

"Is there anything you would like to say to me?" Her voice is calm, flat, but not unkind, almost soothing in its familiarity. "To her?"

No longer, he realizes, are they a patient and a nurse, an old-man-with-many-regrets and a young-woman-with-many-yet-to-come. They have moved beyond that, somewhere inexplicable, and it is perhaps because of this that he finds the courage to turn around, to face her, to see what she looks like as a silhouette against the bright yellow sun and billowy translucent curtains of his room, to see how one dying sees the one they quite possibly love live on for hopefully long years after them.

_How Rukia saw me._

The nurse glances at him, smiles, and Ichigo shatters, breaks.

_Rukia._

"I'm sorry."

_I shouldn't have left you._

"I—"

_I think I loved you_, he wants to say, but his lungs constrict and his airway thickens and he wonders if he has suddenly contracted asthma amidst his confession. He wonders if that's even possible, wonders how life would be if he was suddenly young again, but can no longer wonder on long lost what-ifs because then, suddenly, thunderously, he can feel her smooth forehead against his shoulder in a half-embrace and all trains of thought come to a definite, halting end.

"Ichigo," she utters softly, and he trembles as her warm breath wraps around him, engulfs him as the oceans do a helpless shell.

He lets loose the tears he has been collecting for ages. "I'm so sorry."

She rubs his arm as if she is here for this very reason and this reason alone. "I forgive you."

* * *

Outside, Tatsuki hands the graying, once-upon-a-time-orange-haired woman a cup of steaming coffee before sitting herself down in a chair as well. Both take a long, luxurious sip of the liquid; both allow it to warm their weary, wise bones.

Then, Tatsuki sighs. "I don't know how you did it, Orihime."

Orihime smiles, cradles the coffee as if it a delicate heirloom, and smiles some more. "Magic," she murmurs.

_Fate_, she silently adds.

"Where did you find her?"

Orihime takes another sip. Her smile, if possible, grows wider. "Med school." Another sip, and then she adds, "By complete and utter chance." Another sip before she finally concludes in a soft whisper, "But I'd like to think it was because I never forgot."

Tatsuki nods, and together they marvel at destiny and luck and the wonderment of it all.

"How did you convince her to come here?"

Orihime grins toothily, somewhat embarrassed, and scratches the side of her face. "I used Uryu-kun's connections to pull some strings."

Tatsuki laughs heartily. And then, in the same second, begins to cry heartily.

Orihime squeezes her best friend's hand, intertwines their fingers and fondly remembers Rukia. "It was bound to happen." She stares at Ichigo's door with a watery smile. "He wouldn't have left without seeing her one last time."

* * *

**End**

**

* * *

**

**A/n:** For the record, I really wanted to add Renji and Byakuya somewhere in there since they both are also really important people in her life (and because I am also, in addition of being a massive IchiRuki fan, a RenRuki and ByaRuki fan as well). But this was getting way too long for a simple, one sleepless night one-shot so perhaps I'll save it for another day.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I'll post a happier piece next time, promise. In the meantime, please let me know what you think. :3


End file.
